


This Can't Be Happening To Me

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [25]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Angst, Death, Goodbyes, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Major Character Injury, Other, Shooting, Suicide, Triggers, landmines, read with caution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 21:58:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4453895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Title credit comes from "Last To Know" by Three Days Grace)</p>
<p>He couldn’t even look behind him and whisper one last goodbye; he stumbled away and sank down, sobbing and broken, not knowing what the scene had looked like. The little image his mind has conjured up vanished as the words continued—burning his ears.<br/>“He would have died for you.”<br/>“He did die for me,” Spike looked the man square in the eye, because it’s fucking true even if he doesn’t want to admit it, but only rage and ice peered back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Can't Be Happening To Me

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, the credit for the title comes from "Last to Know" By Three Days Grace.
> 
> So, this is an idea I've been playing around with for a while, and my muse granted me some writing energy so I got it down on paper as soon as I could. Please read with caution, this may be triggering to some readers (suicide). 
> 
> Anyway, please leave feedback because it fuels this fun adventure--and makes me smile. :) Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos, you have no clue how much they mean to me. Have a wonderful day, and I hope to see you again.
> 
> A/N: I do not own Flashpoint, nor the characters. I do not make a profit from my writing. However, it's still my writing so please don't repost anywhere. Thanks!

The brain is both the best and worst part of human existence; it holds such potential for growth, but it also holds the capacity to become a polluted mess that poisons the body it controls. It’s a simple mix of tissue and terrible prospective ability, it’s a kill switch; it’s the executioner and the victim.

It’s death, and it’s life.

It hangs on the same edge that Spike’s found himself on.

The gun pressed against Greg’s head is enough to chill his blood to below the coldest Canadian temperatures, but his gaze is steady and practiced. There’s no panic, no fear, just contemplation that plays with Spike’s heartstrings like an abused violin. One strung too tight; one designed and fated for disaster.

“Can you tell me what you want?” Spike asked, raising his arms in the air in the universal sign of no harm. “Can you tell me how I can help you?”

“You killed my best friend.” There’s no emotion; just a cold resolution that no negotiator wants to hear. It’s the voice of someone who has lost it all and nodded their acceptance. It’s the vast nothingness of a ghost, and the misty malevolence of a poltergeist.

The bomb tech startled, trying to figure out what mystery that sentence holds, and hides a wince when the gun pressed harder against his teammate’s skull as the subject continued.

“You let him step on a landmine,” The man spat, emotion leaking through; “You _let_ him die there.”

“You’re Lou’s friend,” Spike bit his lip, feeling far too vulnerable even in his SRU gear. No bulletproof vest or shield could protect him from this; no amount of training has taught him how to shut off all his emotions—there’s no protection from the fault lines he’s carved within himself.

“I _was_ ,” the man growled, “I’m not here to kill your sergeant, so do what I say and he lives. It’s you I’m after. It’s _you_ that deserves to die.”

That made Greg tense just the tiniest, brown eyes forming words and sentences and solutions and plans. But he doesn’t speak—not with the arm around his throat and the gun to his temple.

“Well, you’ve got me,” Spike took a step forward, feeling Ed and Sam’s stares on his back—but they’re blind; they haven’t been able to get the man in their sights in his protected little alcove—as they sit high above. “So can you let him go?”

“You won’t do what I want if I let him go,” the man laughed, “Lou told me about you—about how you’d put your life on the line but never risk another’s.”

“Lou knew a lot about me,” Spike smiled, and there are tears in his eyes but he blinks them away and bites the inside of his cheek until the pain replaces the emotions. He can’t crack now, not when he’s a mere split second away from being a teammate’s reason for dying—not when he’s so close to another failure.

“He saw you as a brother,” snarling, the man continued, “He trusted you with his life, and you let him down. You killed him. He stepped off that landmine to save you, but you didn’t deserve that. You left him alone to die when you should have gone down with that mine.”

“I know,” that’s all the bomb tech can manage to say, because he should have—even when rationality explains he would have died, Spike knows he should have tried harder. His friend was within his grasp— _right there_!—and he slipped away in a haze of smoke that the bomb tech couldn’t even look at.

He couldn’t even look behind him and whisper one last goodbye; he stumbled away and sank down, sobbing and broken, not knowing what the scene had looked like. The little image his mind has conjured up vanished as the words continued—burning his ears.

“He would have died for you.”

“He did die for me,” Spike looked the man square in the eye, because it’s fucking **true** even if he doesn’t want to admit it, but only rage and ice peered back.

“But you wouldn’t have died for him.” It’s not a question, but Spike shook his head stubbornly.

“I would have died for him. I would have given Lou my life; I would have given him everything if it meant I still had a best friend and not a gravestone.” God, the words tore at his throat worse than razor wire.

“But you _didn’t_ ,” the man stressed, and Spike just wanted this to be over with, “You had the chance to die for him, and you walked away.”

“I was going to go get supplies for a weight transfer,” the bomb tech told him slowly, and the next words sit heavy in his throat and threaten to choke him, “He made his choice, to step off the trigger, he made his choice to save me from dying with him. And I will always love and hate him for making that choice.” His voice cracked, like a bone had snapped within him, “Because he’s gone. But killing someone isn’t going to bring him back. So now you have to make a choice. Put the gun down, sir.”

“I told you,” the man hissed, eyes narrowed, “I’m not going to kill him,”—the gun pressed tighter against the older man’s skull—“He only gets shot if you don’t listen.”

“So tell me what to do,” the bomb tech tried again, wishing Jules wasn’t tied up on a suicide case with the rest of the team and that Greg could talk—get ahold of this situation, guide him, “Tell me what to do so my teammate doesn’t get hurt.”

“You should have gone down with Lou,” The man said evenly, gaze now calculating and hard, “He shouldn’t have died alone.”

“No,” Spike swallowed the lump in his throat, feeling blood in his mouth from where he was gnawing at his cheek to keep the tears at bay, “He shouldn’t have.”

“There’s a landmine over there,” The man nodded towards the small grassy area a few feet away, and the bomb tech wanted to squeeze his eyes shut when he took in the uneven soil. “It’s the same as the one that took Lou from me. If you don’t want your sergeant to get a bullet in his brain, then you’ll go over there and stand on it.”

The world went still, halting to a grind, and Greg’s eyes are so terrified that Spike both wants to look away and can’t. There’s still no Scorpio, still no shot that will make all of this disappear; there’s just too many sets of eyes on him, and one’s honed in for the kill.

“I said,” the man smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, “Go stand on the landmine.”

There’s a noise from Greg, something like a strangled _Spike, **no**_ but it gets too mangled in translation as Spike’s entire world crumbed around him as violently as any explosion felled a building.

“Do you want him dead?”

The question shocks him still, turns him into more of a statue than he already is, and his lips are too numb to try and figure out how to start enunciating an answer.

“I promise, as soon as you step on that mine I’ll let him go. If you don’t, in the next ten seconds, then he gets a bullet to the stomach and if that doesn’t get you moving, then you’re going to watch him die.”

“You haven’t hurt anyone yet,” Spike tried, “you don’t have to end it this way. You haven’t done anything that can’t be fixed.”

**_BANG!_ **

It isn’t a warning shot, and it isn’t the crack of a sniper rifle, because all of a sudden Greg’s hunched over—the man the only thing keeping him up—with a smoking gun rising from where it had slipped to his belly to press back above his ear.

“This is your last warning,” The man said as the bomb tech watched in horror as blood slipped down his lover’s uniform and agony etched itself across his usually cheerful face. He was pale. He was a ghost.

He was bleeding all over like a stuck pig.

Blood pounded in the brunette’s ears, and he willed it to slow because it only made Greg’s injury seem to pulse out the life force faster. But he took a step back, shaky and terrified, as the barrel situated itself against the negotiator’s skull and the blood kept coming.

“Okay,” Spike swallowed, voice hoarse, “Okay, I’ll do what you say. Just let him go, alright?”

“As soon as you step on that landmine, he’s free to go,” The man shrugged, “But I’d do it soon, he’ll bleed out quick.”

Nerves are dying within him, overloading with sensation, because all his training is screaming to do anything but walk to certain death—but Greg’s fading fast, and there’s no way anyone can get off a shot. There’s too much red; his mind is calculating answers that he doesn’t want to know—he just wants to go home and hide in his bed where death can’t catch anyone.

“Promise me,” Spike whispered, and Greg’s too far gone with sheer suffering and blood loss to peer into the bomb tech’s soul and tell him not to do this, “Promise me on Lou’s grave that you’ll let Sergeant Parker go.”

“I promise, on Lewis Young’s grave,” the man parroted, eyes set in stone, “that as soon as you step on that mine he’s free to go.”

The brunette only gave a jerky nod, and his earpiece is excruciatingly static-y with swears and shouts, while peering at the hidden landmine. Then back at Greg, and how much blood has he lost? Why aren’t his eyes open? Why isn’t he moving?

“I don’t want him dead,” The man said quietly, and he’s flipping through emotions so fast that Spike’s brain is falling apart, “Just you. Once you’re dead, I’m done.”

It wouldn’t take a bomb tech to know there was something wrong with the ground, but Spike can see the delicate rise of the earth where the landmine’s trigger is. A group of spikes. ~~His own nickname name will be the bullet behind his death.~~

They let out a soft click as his heavy boot settles on it, and true to his word the man slowly lowers Greg to the ground with a grin and takes a step back.

“That’s all I wanted,” the man smiled, and raised the gun—and Spike’s ready to scream, but it’s not what he feared—so it pressed under his jaw. It goes off with the same noise it had with the first shot, but it sounds so much duller to Spike.

Lying motionless on the ground, Greg’s form doesn’t even flinch when the subject’s body fell behind him—blood mixing from the head wound with the negotiator’s own GSW.

“Officer down,” Spike blew slowly into the earpiece, “and the subject is dead.”

No one responds to him, so it’s silent save for the near silent sound of blood dripping down the walls and onto the floor—from where’s the man had painted his brains across the material behind him.

“It’s safe for paramedics,” he continued after searching the area with his eyes, “just stay on the pavement—the mine won’t go off if I don’t move.”

There’s still no voices, so Spike slowly reached down and fiddled with his radio until he found the channel his team was hiding on—their voices loud and crazed, agitated and _petrified_.

“I need a paramedic down here immediately!” he barked, because _damn it_ —Greg’s fucking _dying_ in front of him, they don’t have time for lectures and fears. They don’t have time to hide like they’re afraid Spike will understand what’s happened—what’s _going to_ happen. “Greg’s in bad shape.”

“One’s coming, Spike,” Ed responded, voice far too strained, but true to his word Spike sees the gear and stretcher rolling their way.

“The mine won’t go off if I don’t move,” Spike repeated, looking away from Greg because he doesn’t want to die with the image of his lover dead and bloody fresh in his eyes—he wants to die thinking of cuddling in their bed, all four of them pressed tight together until it’s too damn hot and they just press closer like it will cool them off; he wants to die thinking off their dumb fights and silly moments. He wants to die with love on the tip of his tongue—he wants to die like he lives, blissfully ignorant in the precious hours of the witching times until it crashes down around him when the sun beats down.

“We know,” Sam managed, speech thick and odd, “Just… stay still, alright, buddy? You’ll be okay.”

“Do you think he glued the pin hole?” Spike wondered, more to himself than anything else, and he hears an impact in the background—far too much like a fist smacking into a wall. “I’d look but...” He’s made of ice—thawing and refreezing: unstable, unreliable. His legs have turned to stone—crumbling and left in ruins. His hands are shaking, just barely, but not at the fear of his own death.

“ _Don’t. Move_!” Ed snarled over the radio, so Spike watched, instead, as Greg was hauled onto the stretcher and rolled away—the tension released immediately, as the paramedic gave him a reassuring nod.

“What can you give us to work with, Spike?” Sam asked, and there’s a flurry of Jules and Wordy’s voices in the background.

“It feels like the same design,” _as the landmine that killed Lou_ , “but it’s covered, I can’t see anything. I can just feel the trigger.”

“They’re sending a guy from the bomb squad down,” The blonde said in response, “So just hang tight.”

“What if the pin hole’s glued?” Spike turned his ponder into an inquiry, and it’s grating on his nerves that he’s trapped by a bomb when he’s spent his life learning how to disable the damn things.

“ _Don’t_ talk about that.” Ed huffed, “and they said Greg will be fine, it doesn’t look like the bullet hit anything vital.”

“Good,” that’s all he can manage.

Ten minutes later, the piece in Spike’s ear silent, the bomb tech kneeling beside him sucked in a breath and rested a hand over his lips. Quickly, Spike switched off his radio—he didn’t want his team to hear it like this, so blunt and hasty.

“It’s glued, isn’t it?”

He gets a nod.

“There’s—,” The bomb tech at his feet sighed, face paled with anxiety, and now Spike understood how Lou felt. “ _God_ , there’s _nothing_ I can do.”

“I know,” Spike nodded, “I lost a teammate to one of these. The only thing I could think of was a weight transfer—but I researched it, after he died, and it would never work.”

Gaze horrified and feeble, the other man took another look at the device and just shook his head.

“There has to be some way,” The man grasped for straws, listing off ideas but Spike simply shook his head—he’d though through them all; went over all of the calculations in the darkness of his room. There’s none.

He’s going to die.

“Go back to the perimeter,” Spike smiled reassuringly, “go talk it over, I’ll be here.”

“I’ll go find some diagrams, maybe...” The man trailed off, standing up and brushing himself off, and Spike grabbed his cellphone out of his pocket as he watched the man pass behind the perimeter line.

He hits Greg’s number without hesitation.

“How are you feeling?” He starts, grinning at the raspy sound of his lover’s voice as he _lies through his teeth_ —he understands Lou, he doesn’t want Greg to hear him sobbing in terror as he faces death head on, “I’m fine, I just pretended to step on the mine. I just wanted to tell you I love you; you really scared me today.” He pauses, and doesn’t bite back the tears as he hears the negotiator grating back his declaration of love, “Yup, I love you too. We’ll be there as soon as we get the scene wrapped up. Get some rest, you hear me? Yeah, okay, bye.”

The calls cuts off too quickly for his tastes, and he switches back on his radio as he tucks the device away.

Sam’s screaming, and Ed’s voice has reached a pitch that threatens to deafen him, and he doesn’t want to think about the dread in the team’s voices.

“We’ll get you off that thing,” Sam sounds like he’s trying to reassure himself more than Spike, “But you got to stay still. I don’t give a _fuck_ how bad your legs hurt or how tired you get—you _stay still_ , do you hear me, Spike?” Ed seconds the motion.

“There’s nothing you can do,” the bomb tech answered, “the pin hole’s glued, and it’s the same type as before—there’s nothing you can do.”

“We’ll figure something out!” Ed shouted, and Spike closed his eyes but blinked them back open because the stunning icy blue eyes only intensified in image when he wasn’t facing the reality around him. ~~Below him.~~

“No, you won’t,” Spike sighed, “don’t blame yourself for what happens, alright? There was nothing you could have done.”

“ ** _Michelangelo Scarlatti_** ,” A voice shrieked frantically, and it’s Ed’s—because Sam’s has become a mess of broken animal sounds, “ _DON’T YOU DARE FUCKING MOVE_!”

He saw his two lovers racing from where they had been with the bomb squad towards the blast zone, and he pressed down the desire to just talk until the sun goes down.

“I love you; I love you so much it hurts.” He spilled out quickly, already bracing his muscles and closing his eyes—imaging sunlight leaking in through Greg’s window as they all cuddle in a messy pile together; limbs limp with exhaustion and happiness. He imagined Sam and Ed’s startling blue eyes, and Greg’s adoring brown ones. He imagined the soft and rough hands on his skin, the blanket sitting warped at the end of the bed because they’re warm enough with just each other. He imagined the whispered assertions of affection in the quiet morning, chaste kisses and giggles and laughs. He imagined love, because he wanted to die like he lived: happy and loved.

“I love you,” Spike repeated desperately, “ _and I’m so sorry_.”

Then he stepped off the landmine.


End file.
